


Alice's restaurant

by Builder



Series: Steelbridge Sixties [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Thanksgiving, Vietnam War, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 17:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16706614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: He isn’t hungry.  He doesn’t want to open his mouth, either.  His stomach’s in knots.  Everything in this godforsaken country smells like sweat and shit, even the food.  Even the food they shipped in specially, as if the government needed a federal holiday to give the troops abroad a sharp kick in the ass and call it thankfulness._____Or, Bucky has a problem with Thanksgiving, even after he comes home from the war.





	Alice's restaurant

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU set in 1967 during the height of the Vietnam war.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @builder051

_____

 

_Walk into the shrink wherever you are, just walk in, say,_ _“Shrink, you can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant,” and walk out_

_You know, if one person, just one person, does it, they may think he’s really sick and they won’t take him_

_And if two people do it, in harmony, they may think they’re both faggots and they won’t take either of them_

_And if three people do it! Can you imagine three people walkin’ in, singin’ a bar of “Alice’s Restaurant” and walkin’ out? They may think it’s an organization!_

_-_ -Arlo Guthrie _, Alice’s Restaurant,_ 1967

_______

Bucky wakes with his head aching.  He supposes he should be used to it by now.  He doesn’t think he’s gone a whole day without pain since before the war.  The days when he was too fucked up to be aware of his body don’t count.  And he’s supposed to be getting clean anyway.

The alarm clock on the bedside table begins to ring.  Steve reaches out of the cocoon on blankets to silence it.  Then he rolls over and grins at Bucky.  “Morning,” he says sleepily.

“Morning.”  Bucky tries arranging his face in a smile, but it feels awkward.  He isn’t sure he’s achieved the desired result. He stops worrying about it when his jaw stretches into a yawn.

“Sleep ok?” Steve asks as he sits up.

Bucky shrugs.  It’s easier to sleep in Steve’s bed.  He’s gotten used to the mattress.  It no longer feels gooey under his spine, and it’s a definite improvement from an Army-issue bedroll or a hospital cot.  It helps to have another body tucked in with him, too.  A peaceful face one pillow over to remind him of where he is in time and space.

“It’s a big day, right?”  Bucky rubs the grit from his eyes.

“Yeah.”  Steve opens the dresser drawer and starts pulling on a pair of jeans.  He tosses another pair onto the bed for Bucky.  “You remembered.  Ready to wield a serving spoon?”

“I remembered…”  Bucky echoes.  Most of the time he knows what day it is, but it’s especially important today.  It’s Thanksgiving.  A happy day.  But he doesn’t feel happy.

Bucky mulls it over as he slips out of bed.  Everything at the forefront of his mind is solid, like the surface of a frozen lake, gleaming and ready to run across.  He’s safe.  He’s home.  He and Steve have plans.  But a dark shape lurks beneath the surface, reminding him that all it takes is a single crack for things to turn dangerous.

Steve helps him through the process of getting ready.  They’ve fallen into a routine; Bucky struggles with his clothes while Steve disappears to the bathroom.  He finishes up as soon as Bucky’s ready to join him, leaving the faucet running and Bucky’s toothbrush on the counter.

Bucky wants to ask him for an aspirin.  Ideally something stronger, but he knows that won’t fly.  He hasn’t touched anything beyond weed in almost a month.   _Which is a good thing_ , Bucky reminds himself.  He sticks his toothbrush in his mouth, cringing at the bitter tang of chemicals under the artificial mint.  Too late now.  He won’t want to swallow anything for at least half an hour.

They hold hands as they walk to the shelter.  “No one’ll see,” Steve murmurs as he interlaces his fingers with Bucky’s.  It’s a holiday, and early morning to boot.  The neighborhood is completely still, and even the main roads are devoid of traffic. There may as well only be two cars in the entire town, both parked on the curb in front of the soup kitchen.

It’s warm inside, and already full of the aroma of cooking food.  “Hey, guys!”  Scott looks up from the antenna he’s wrestling into place atop the ancient TV set.  “There’s coffee in the back.  And pie.”

“Pie?” Steve shakes his head.  “A little early for that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t just for breakfast anymore.”  Scott fiddles with the knob to change the channel, and a view of New York City appears in grainy black and white.

“Nice one, man.”  Steve claps him on the shoulder, then leads Bucky through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Sam appears to be in command, stirring a huge pot of potatoes while talking T’Challa through the turkey.  “It’s pre-cooked, man.  Stop messing with the oven or you’re gonna dry it out.”  His eyes alight on Steve and Bucky, and he greets them with an enthusiastic, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Most wonderful time of the year,” Steve says.  He pours himself a cup of coffee, then raises the carafe and makes eyes at Bucky.

“Sure,” Bucky mumbles.  The kitchen is comforting, both at the shelter and the house.  Like the bed, it’s not a place Bucky’s been lately, so he’s at ease there.  Mostly.  His hackles are up today, nagging at him like the throb behind his forehead, reminding him again of the fragility of his situation.  He takes one sip of the coffee, then decides he’s jittery enough and leaves the mug on the counter.

Steve won’t let him touch the knives, supposedly because his one-handedness keeps him from being able to hold steady whatever he’s cutting.  Bucky knows it’s for safety, too.  He agrees that it’s probably smart.  Sam puts him in charge of the gravy, first stirring the pot bubbling on the stove, then ladling it onto trays when the clock strikes 11 and the customers start streaming in.

Steve’s a chatterbox, too excited for his own good.  He makes conversation with every person in line as he doles out potatoes and stuffing.  Some of the scruffy men reply in kind, but most just mutter “thanks” and look at the floor.

Bucky doesn’t blame them.  He has a hard time lifting his gaze from the oily sheen of the gravy pan.  Making eye contact leaves him exposed, staring down the humanity in the other guy’s soul, just as they stare down his.  It makes it harder to act.  Harder to kill.

“Pour a little extra on here for me, will ya, boy?”

“Huh?”  Bucky blinks down at the slice of apple pie and the shaky hand holding out the dessert plate.  Then at the face behind it; the grin and the eye patch.

“Ugh, really, Nick?”  Steve laughs and wrinkles his nose.  “Gravy on potatoes, gravy on turkey…but gravy on pie?”

“Hey, I don’t comment on what you get up to,” Nick says.  “Come on.  Help a brother out.”

Bucky lifts the ladle slowly.  His heart beats hard and fast, but everything around him is too still.  The extended second of levitation before free fall.

“Who cares?  It’s just gravy.”

_It’s just gravy._

_I don’t care.  They’re not your rations._

_He ain’t gonna eat ‘em._

_He ain’t your fucking problem._

_Don’t speak for ‘im.  Whadaya say, Barnes?  You gonna eat?_

He isn’t hungry.  He doesn’t want to open his mouth, either.  His stomach’s in knots.  Everything in this godforsaken country smells like sweat and shit, even the food.  Even the food they shipped in specially, as if the government needed a federal holiday to give the troops abroad a sharp kick in the ass and call it thankfulness.

“Buck?  You alright?”  Steve’s hand closes over Bucky’s, stilling its quavering.  There’s gravy all over the counter, and Nick’s pie is swimming in it.

“Sorry, Nick,” Steve says.  “Scotty, you wanna grab him a fresh slice?”

“No, no, it’s ok,” Nick says with a chuckle.  “Got what I asked for, didn’t I?”  He takes his food and shuffles to a table.

“Just put it down, Buck.”  Steve murmurs.  He pries the ladle out of Bucky’s grip.  “Alright?”

Bucky’s teeth are chattering.  But he’s warm.  Too warm.  His head hurts.  And his arms.  The one that’s been stirring and scooping for the past four hours, and the one that’s not there.

Steve tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear and presses the backs of his knuckles to his cheek.  “You feel ok?”

Bucky means to say “yeah,” but instead he mumbles, “People are gonna see…”

“It’s fine,” Steve says.  “Like he said, nobody cares what we get up to.”

_Nobody cares.  Rations are rations._

Bucky takes a breath and tries again.  “I…” he starts.  “Um…”

“How ‘bout you sit down and have something to eat,” Steve suggests.  He pats Bucky’s shoulder and turns to get him a plate.

It’s the last thing Bucky wants, but he isn’t in the position to argue.  All he can do is try not to watch as Steve dishes him up.

“Here, come sit.”  Steve finds him a place at a table in the corner between Darcy and Nat.  Some deep recess of Bucky’s brain acknowledges the small miracle of veterans and protesters enjoying dinner in the same room, but the thought is impossible to hold.  It’s on top of the ice, and he’s trapped beneath it.  He’s stuck here, in his body and his memories, while the rest of the world spins without him.

Bucky picks up his fork because that seems like what Steve wants.  As soon as his blonde head bobs back into the kitchen, though, Bucky stands up again.  Somebody asks what’s wrong, but he doesn’t reply.  He can’t.

He leaves through the front door and circles around the back of the building.  A dumpster takes up most of the narrow alley, but there’s a pile of plywood and a soggy-looking mattress jammed into the corner.  Bucky makes for it, tripping over his feet and going down harder than he intends.  His knees smart, but Bucky doesn’t care.  He has to focus, to spit out the words before they turn to rocks in his pockets and pull him down.

Beds didn’t exist in Vietnam.  They did before, and they do after.  Nothing else matters.  Not food, not Thanksgiving.  Just safety.  And Steve.

“You’re…here,” Bucky grunts.  “You’re safe.”  He embeds his hand in his hair and stares at the dirty pavement between his feet.  He pulls in a half-dozen breaths that taste like garbage and winter sunshine.  It’s cold out here.  It wasn’t cold in Vietnam.

“There you are.”  It’s Steve’s voice.  Steve’s shadow approaches, and his shoes edge into Bucky’s visual field.  “Not feeling so good?”

“Hm.”  Bucky sighs.  “’M here.”

“And you’re safe,” Steve finishes.  He sits on the edge of the mattress and lays the flat of his palm between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  “Do you feel like talking about it?”

“Nah.”  Bucky searches for a sentence to capture the gist of it, but the more he thinks about it, the more nebulous the feelings become.  “Just…memories.  And…hurt.”

“What hurts?”

Bucky runs down the list.  Head, stomach, arms, ribs…  The tension in his shoulders holds an exhausting sort of pain.  He usually relaxes into Steve’s touch, but this time his muscles are locked in spasms, sending a nauseating tightness into his throat.  “My arm,” he says.  “My arms.”

“You probably used some muscles you haven’t worked in a while.”  Steve squeezes Bucky’s bicep and runs his hand over the top of his back.  He gently touches the crest of Bucky’s stump shoulder.  “Over here too?”

“Hm.”  The scars are healed now.  Nothing’s wrong with his skin, save the jagged pink marks that have yet to fade.  But something’s off on the inside, phantom pins and needles that prickle like surgical implements accidentally stitched inside. They come and go, fading for weeks then suddenly popping back to remind Bucky of how far he is from truly recovering, how any little thing can ruin him.

Like gravy.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re here.  You’re safe…”  Steve says something else, but Bucky doesn’t hear it.  His fingers hit the underside of Bucky’s stump, and the world turns upside down.  The tension in Bucky’s body drops, then reengages in the blink of an eye.  His entire left side tingles.  His vision erupts in stars, and a dry heave bursts from his chest.

“Whoa, ok,” Steve murmurs frantically.  “Ok.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Buck.”  The pressure of his hands disappears, leaving Bucky unmoored and drifting.  Bucky blinks a few times, but it does nothing for the sick vertigo playing around his ears.

“Ugh.”  Bucky wishes he could say something more definitive, something to insinuate he’s ok.  Which he isn’t, but he’s going to be, as soon as he gets his bearings again.

Steve’s breath is quick and concerned beside him.  He’s going to work himself into a tizzy if he isn’t careful.  Bucky lifts his trembling hand and drops it on Steve’s knee to reassure him, to make him feel a little better.  He thinks he feels a little better too.

 

 

 

 


End file.
